


All the world's a stage

by forrestfromthetrees



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Canon Universe, Friends to Lovers, Humor, M/M, Minor Allison Argent/Scott McCall, Post-Season/Series 02, Werewolf Mates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-23
Updated: 2019-03-23
Packaged: 2019-11-28 12:51:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18208556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forrestfromthetrees/pseuds/forrestfromthetrees
Summary: This was pretty much the worst conclusion Stiles’ mind had already jumped to. He was lonely as fuck, so was Derek too as it turned out, and their treacherous bodies were attempting to create a mate bond of epic proportions.The worst bit of all, Derek didn’t have a clue.





	All the world's a stage

**Author's Note:**

> Set at the end of Season 2, before all my favourite characters left. A casual romp into the sublime and the ridiculous, in which Stiles gets dragged unwillingly into setting Derek up for the sake of his sanity and it goes exactly as you'd expect.
> 
> The title is from Shakespeare. Life sucks and even when we think we're in control we're really not.

“Stiles!” His blessedly oblivious and yet still wonderfully endearing best-friend-come-werewolf seemed unperturbed by the stares he drew as he called out Stiles’ name in the school corridor more loudly than was strictly necessary.

Fortunately popularity had never been a goal he’d ever aspired to (or any hope of reaching) so Stiles ignored the annoyed looks from his classmates as Scott approached him and threw a friendly arm over shoulder.

“Scott, my favourite lunar catastrophe. You look like you have news.” Stiles paused as he took in the werewolf’s expression. “Oh dear god, you have news.” After years of friendship, Stiles knew the difference between Scott’s ‘ _hey-buddy-I-saw-you-and-just-wanted-to-see-how-you-were-doing-and-grab-some-lunch’_ expression and his ‘ _I-have-some-creepy-werewolf-related-news-that-will-inevitably-end-in-our-untimely-death’_ expression. Today was, without doubt, the latter.

With some half-hearted reluctance, Stiles allowed himself to be steered him into the nearest abandoned classroom, risking once last glance backwards to make sure they weren’t followed. Not for the first time he wondered if the teachers ever thought there was something more to their friendship, given the number of times they snuck out of school together and huddled in dark, un-trafficked corridors.

If only his love life was that interesting.

Not that Scott and his love life would ever be mixing. Period. Full stop.

Unlike his oversharing best friend who felt the need to divulge every intimate detail of his way-too-gross relationship with Allison, Stiles was convinced if said gross relationship ever happened to him he’d keep his mouth shut.

Well, he liked to think so anyway.

“You look like you don’t have terrible, world-ending news.” Stiles began, the moment the door to the classroom closed and he turned to see the beaming smile on his friend’s face. “I can’t remember the last time you had that face. Except for when you told me about the first time that you and Allison… oh crap… that’s not what this is about is it? Because if you two are getting back together I’m shipping off to Columbia. That’s it, I’m done, it’s the outlaw life for me, because there’s only so much…”

“Stiles.” Scott interrupted him, but the seriousness was belied by the smirk that still tinged the edge of his lips. “I’m not getting back together with Allison.” The werewolf’s smirk faded a little at the thought, clearly still too raw a wound to be able to crack a joke about it.

“Right, so this is good, non-Allison related news.” Stiles dumped his bag on a spare desk and sat on its neighbour, legs swinging almost compulsively in impatience. He’d never been one to have terrible amounts of self-control. “I’m on the edge of my… desk. Share the news. Unload the goss. Give me the 411…”

“Stiles.” Scott repeated in that same amused, exasperated tone. “I got a text from Derek, he found Erica and Boyd.”

There was a heartbeat of silence in the classroom, as Stiles absorbed the information and rolled it around in his far-too-hyperactive mind. There were a million thoughts, a hundred things to say in that moment, but true to form his pea-brain settled on the least helpful one.

“You and Derek… text now?” The words spilled out of his mouth like drool.

“Focus Stiles. Erica, Boyd. They’re safe.” Scott tried again, and this time Stiles’ brain actually grasped the important bits.

“Right. _Right!_ Well that’s good. What happened to them? Did the grumpywolf say anything in this text interchange that apparently I know nothing about?” Stiles inwardly winced at how weirdly possessive his voice sounded. He didn’t mind if Derek and Scott texted. It was fine. Scott was allowed to have other friends, right? It was perfectly normal, expected. Even if those friends did happen to drive shiny black Camaro’s and wear dark leather jackets and ludicrously tight t-shirts and just be all shades of a cool that Stiles had no hope of reaching.

Nope, not jealous at all.

“He asked us to come around after school to talk. Says there’s things he should bring us up to speed on.” Scott, bless his heart, ignored Stiles’ awkward comment and persevered in delivering the message with a patience that he sometimes – just sometimes mind – envied something fierce.

“Us?” Stiles asked skeptically, knowing already that there was no universe in which Derek would willingly invite him over.

“Well, he didn’t mention you, but I don’t care. You’re coming.” Scott had his stubborn voice on, and since for once it was working in Stiles’ favour he didn’t feel the need to argue.

Besides which, he had no intention of not tagging along. Despite his undeniably short life span to date, one lesson had been hammered home to Stiles repeatedly and ruthlessly.

The universe didn’t just give you free hand outs. It didn’t just pat you on the back and say – _here you go buddy, here’s a free-ride because I think you’re swell_. No, if Erica and Boyd were back, it could only mean one thing.

Trouble was brewing. Serious, life threatening, _likely-to-involve-Stiles-dead-in-a-ditch_ sort of trouble.

It must be a Wednesday.

\--

“Why is he here?” Derek had his annoyed bitch-face on the moment Scott and Stiles stepped into the loft. Derek had texted Scott the address earlier in the day (because apparently texting murderous alphas was a thing that happened now), much to their surprise. They had expected to head to the decrepit train station that had previously been the creepy serial killer’s home.

The loft was… almost nice. Kind of New York hipster meets industrial-chic, if you had a visceral dislike of furniture and were into the sparse look. Stiles was temped to ask Derek if he slept in a doggy bed outside, but for once his brain caught up with his mouth and stopped him from asking stupid questions beforehand.

“He stays or I go.” Scott said stubbornly, unnecessarily. Stiles’ heart swelled at his friends’ ever-present loyalty, so fierce and somewhat misguided. “Where are Erica and Boyd?” Scott continued, wisely leaving no room for the alpha to argue with him.

Derek gestured vaguely at the top of a spiral staircase that hugged one corner of the large room, where a second story seemed to disappear into shadow.

“Sleeping.” He grunted with his usual recalcitrance. “They’ll be out cold for the next day so I wouldn’t worry about waking them.”

“I want to see them for myself.” Scott was being particularly stubborn today, which – again - Stiles was perfectly fine with as long as it wasn’t directed at himself. It made him feel a little bit better about the whole _texting-another-werewolf_ thing, which was still sort of rubbing him the wrong way for reasons he didn’t care to examine too deeply. At least Scott still didn’t trust the alpha.

Not like he trusted Stiles anyway.

“Fine.” Derek replied through gritted teeth, his bitch-face back with a vengeance. “Be quick.”

Scott headed up the staircase without comment, his wolf senses ensuring he barely disturbed the rusty iron structure as he disappeared into the darkness. Stiles knew, without a doubt, if he’d attempted to follow he’d have woken up not only Erica and Boyd but half the apartment block as well with his uncoordinated stomping.

As the awkward silence expanded around them, Stiles was suddenly intimately, painfully aware of the fact that he was alone with Derek Hale for the first time in months. Against his will, he felt his heartbeat climb and settle somewhere at the base of his throat. The smug look on the alpha’s face suggested he heard it and found it deeply amusing.

“So, new digs huh?” Stiles powered on, desperate to end the silence and drown out the sound of his treacherous heart.” Derek gave him a hard stare, his arms crossed in way that seemed to accentuate his absurdly large arms that were barely contained within his absurdly tight t-shirt. He was in white today, obviously new because the garment was devoid of any of the soot or blood stains that usually peppered the werewolf’s wardrobe.

“Bet rent isn’t cheap.” Stiles tried again, shuffling awkwardly towards an uncomfortable wooden table near the large window and taking a seat, subconsciously distancing himself as much as possible from Derek. He folded his arms over the tabletop, the flannel he wore tightening around his shoulders and reminding him once again that he really needed to buy some new clothes himself.

“I own the building.” Derek said flatly, and despite the complete lack of emotion and inability to hold a conversation, Stiles was kind of impressed he’d gotten a useful answer at all.

Clearly this was progress.

Most normal human beings (or werewolves for that matter) would chalk this up as a win and back off to retreat and re-strategize. Not Stiles.

“So, if you own this nifty little apartment block, why is it that you spent all those months squatting in the burned down wreckage of your childhood home?” Stiles felt the tactlessness of the comment the second after it left his mouth, which was, as usual, terrible timing.

Derek took it about as well as to be expected, meaning he let out a sort of warning growl and crossed his arms even tighter ( _seriously how big are those arms?_ ) and just stared some more at Stiles like he was an unpleasant stain on his shoe.

Stiles was rescued from himself by the appearance of Scott, who had blissfully reappeared and was making his way down the rusty staircase far too slowly for his liking. Seriously, the guy was a werewolf, it wasn’t like he couldn’t hurry things up a bit. Stiles had things to do, like get the fuck out of this apartment before Derek barbequed him for lunch.

“They’re asleep.” Scott confirmed to no one in particular as he reached the landing and made his way over to the table Stiles was already seated at. Derek just huffed in a way that clearly said _I-told-you-so_ without needing to actually utter the words. Stiles vaguely wondered if all the Hales had been trained in the art of communicating via grunting, and suddenly his mind was filled with an image of the Hale family seated around a dinner table and just growling at each other in place of conversation. Far from being amusing, the picture just made his heart ache a little because none of the people around that table were alive anymore, except for Peter who was basically life’s answer to a human tapeworm and hence didn’t count.

“So what happened to them?” Scott began, his voice soft even though Derek had already made it clear there was no risk of waking his betas. The scowl on the other werewolf’s face melted only marginally as he crossed the room and, much to Stiles’ alarm, sat down at the table with them.

The sudden proximity of the alpha felt like someone had just turned on a shower over his head, as all of his senses were suddenly saturated with _something_. Stiles could suddenly feel the incredible _heat_ radiating off the werewolf like a furnace, and smell the overpowering scent of grass and forest and was that _rain?_ Seriously, what kind of creature, human or otherwise, smelled like _rain?_

“… the alpha pack.” Stiles blinked and realised that in his distraction he’d missed the first half of Derek’s admittedly short explanation.

“Alpha pack?” He and Scott repeated in near-unison.

“A pack, of alphas.” Derek replied, like this was an actual answer to the question and not just a rephrasing of the same words in a slightly different order.

“Really, is that what that is?” Stiles felt his sarcasm rise almost like an involuntary compulsion. “I thought it was a pack of omegas and we just called it an alpha pack to make things interesting.” The green eyes swivelled in his direction and narrowed in dislike, adding to the already overwhelming impact of the werewolf’s presence. Stiles shuffled his seat a few inches away, but it did little to drown out the heat and scent of him.

Seriously, since when was Derek’s presence just so… much?

“They had them locked in an abandoned bank downtown, inside the vault.” The alpha’s glare was back on Scott, as he successfully ignored the shit out of Stiles.

“How did they escape?” Scott asked, and Stiles was grateful his friend still had enough sense to ask questions because he was suddenly feeling weird and prickly all over, like his skin was trying to jump off his own body.

“That’s the part that worries me.” Derek seemed reluctant admitting this weakness, his lips pinching into a thin line as he appeared to contemplate how much to divulge. “They didn’t escape. The pack leader – Deucalion – let them go.”  

Stiles really wished he had something meaningful to add to this, something witty or at the very least sarcastic, but he was still far too distracted by the sensory overload. He took a deep breath in an attempt to calm himself down, but all it did was earn him a lungful of _forest_ and _rain_ and _fucking_ _Derek._

“Why would he let them go? It doesn’t make any sense.” Scott contemplated aloud. “It must be part of this Deucalion’s plan somehow, but what is it? And why take them in the first place?”

“I don’t know.” Derek’s pinched look was back. “But we need to find out.” It was Scott’s turn to adopt the pained look, as the two werewolves seemed to have an unspoken anxiety-stare-off that Stiles was personally grateful not to be on the receiving end of, particularly in his current state.

“We?” Scott murmured, breaking the stare but replacing it with an even more loaded question.

“I know you said I wasn’t your alpha, I’m not asking you to join my pack.” Derek said slowly. “I’m just asking for your help.” The alpha looked like he’d rather stab himself with a fork, repeatedly, in the eye, before admitting that again. Fortunately once was enough for Scott, the ever-righteous and eagerly helpful werewolf who seemed to take a personal joy in putting them in situations that were likely to involve blood and death and gruesome, gruesome violence.

“Seriously Scott?” Stiles spluttered out, through the haze of olfactory overload. “This alpha pack is so not your problem. I can’t even describe all the ways this is not your problem.”

“They took Erica and Boyd.” Scott’s stubbornness was now firmly squared in his direction and Stiles could already tell he was on the losing side of this argument.

“Yeah, and then let them go. Do we remember the part where he let them go?” Stiles added pointedly, ignoring the involuntary shiver that ran through his body as Derek shifted in his seat and put his right bicep, the one closest to him, an inch closer. _What the fuck Stiles._ _Pull your shit together._

“We don’t know what he’s after - until we do we should stick together.” Scott insisted. “He could take me or Isaac next…”

“Isaac or I….” Stiles corrected automatically, uselessly. Sometimes he really envied people who had even a modicum of self-control.

“Just, shut up Stiles.” Derek growled, rising from the chair and blissfully, oh sweet mercy, removing himself from Stiles’ personal space as he made his way over to the makeshift kitchen in the opposite corner of the room. The prickly feeling left immediately, although the scent seemed to cling obstinately to the air around him as he took in a deep, almost-Derek-free breath.

“So what does helping you actually involve?” Stiles shouted after the alpha’s retreating back, pleased to have full control of his mental faculties again. “Scheming nights at the new Hale abode? Shall we order pizzas and huddle around the couch and plot to drown ourselves in the blood of our enemies?”

\--

If Stiles’ had known how eerily close his absurd guess was to how their Friday night actually panned out, he probably would’ve travelled back in time and warned Scott to turn down Derek’s request.

Unfortunately Stiles had no clue, nor did he have the ability to time travel, so it was that two days later he and Scott returned to the apartment and found themselves surrounded by Isaac, Boyd and Erica – fighting for pizza and space on the blue couches that occupied yet another corner of the loft – and generally having something approaching a good time.

The good mood was driven in most part by Erica and Boyd, who had made a full recovery and were generally enjoying the _really-glad-we’re-not-dead, isn’t-life-awesome_ post-capture high. Stiles, although still deeply on edge surrounded by so many creepy-rage-monsters, could sort of sympathise with their position and was happy enough to run with it. Particularly when Scott seemed to have an actual, honest to god, non-Allison-induced smile on his face.

Even he wasn’t so heartless to piss all over his friend’s good time, even if it did involve spending a Friday night at _Derek’s house_.

The grumpywolf in question was being his usual socially-awkward self, seated on a wooden chair that he’d dragged over from the table and clearly distancing himself from the melee of betas on the couch. Stiles had taken a seat on the floor, pointedly on the opposite side of the coffee table to the alpha, to avoid a repeat of Wednesday’s _Incident._

He’d taken to calling it _The Incident_ , because so far it was an isolated event and he’d mostly chalked it up to a fleeting ( _very fleeting)_ bout of the flu - not that he’d gone out of his way to approach Derek and attempt to repeat that experiment. No way in hell that was happening.

“Erica. Boyd.” Derek cut through the chatter of the betas like a knife through butter – the transition from noisy conversation to absolute silence utterly seamless. Even Scott had stopped whatever he was doing to listen to Derek, and not for the first time Stiles wondered just how much his friend was susceptible to the alpha’s influence. It might explain why Scott was always so ready to risk life and limb for the latest ill-advised, ill-formed Derek-inspired plan. “Can you tell us more about what you heard while you were being held by the alphas?”

“I don’t remember much Derek.” Erica replied, all demure and apologetic. Nothing like the sexed-up, overly confident girl that manhandled him into dumpsters or strutted around the school with her cleavage exposed for poor boys like Stiles to spend their entire lunch break pointedly avoiding.

“They kept asking about you.” Boyd added. “They tortured us a lot at the beginning – less towards the end. But they were always asking questions about you, and sometimes about the Argents.” There was a pause, as the boy visibly swallowed the pain of the memories.

Even at a distance, from his position on the floor, Stiles could see Erica sneak her hand into Boyd’s and clutch it tightly. It was a gesture born of a deep intimacy that only a horrific experience like the one they’d endured could ever graft. Stiles, almost against his will, felt a little of his dislike whither away at the sight.

“The Argents?” Derek enquired, pointedly ignoring the hand-holding even though it was impossible to miss. “What did they want to know about them?” The alpha had one foot folded over his knee, stretching his jeans impossibly tight, although for once his arms were sitting loosely in his lap rather than crossed, so the usually enormous biceps were just their regular, _I-could-casually-beat-you-to-a-pulp_ size. Not that Stiles had noticed.

“They were asking about how we knew them. What their tactics were. I didn’t give them much…” Boyd faltered. “Although it was mostly because I don’t know much. I probably would have if I had.” The regret, the bitterness in his tone, was unmistakeable. On top of his steadily diminishing dislike, Stiles now had pity to add to the list of emotions he felt towards the Hale betas, and inwardly scowled.

Of course, none of that was as surprising as Scott, who was seated on Boyd’s other side, lifting his hand and placing it reassuringly on the beta’s knee in a clear gesture of comfort. Stiles risked a glance outside the window to check the world wasn’t ending.

“Scott.” Derek breathed out slowly, and for a hysterical second Stiles actually thought the alpha was going to tell off his friend for touching Boyd. “I think you should tell Allison. Her insight could be useful, and clearly the alpha pack are after her family too.”

Scott blinked in surprise, and then nodded. “I’ll see if she wants to join us, next time we meet.” He added, warily, gauging the alpha’s reaction.

Derek just gave a short, distracted nod in response - clearly the only level of positive emotion he was capable of delivering - before standing and making his way over to the coffee table. Stiles had all but forgotten about _The Incident_ at this point, so it took him several seconds to register the prickling sensation on his skin that grew with every treacherous step Derek took towards him. By the time the alpha leaned down to swipe a slice of pizza, Stiles was in full blown sensory overload once again and cursing every deity he could recall for his shitty existence.

It was worse than last time. Every breath he took led to another lungful of _fucking Derek,_ and the prickling sensation had morphed into a burning sensation that seemed to run through his veins like liquid fire. He was hot, so goddamn hot, convinced he was never going to be cold again and that suddenly didn’t feel like such a bad thing…

And then Derek straightened, slice of pizza in hand, and returned to his seat. Like nothing had happened.

_Like nothing had fucking happened._

Stiles was well and truly screwed.

\--

Stiles had experienced a raft of truly awkward conversations with Scott during their long years of friendship. The whole Allison debacle aside, going through puberty and parental divorce and his _ever-burning-but-possibly-a-tad-diminished_ flame for Lydia had forged an unshakeable bond between them. A bond that said, no matter what, I can handle whatever shit you throw at me. I will figuratively bury dead bodies if you ask me to. Sometimes also literally, as it turned out.

This latest _incident_ however (as it was still being called despite the repeat occurrence) was definitely encroaching on new territory. Because Stiles, for all his flailing and terrible lacrosse-playing, was not an idiot. If he approached Scott and told him that every time Derek got close his heart beat faster and his skin felt weird, the boy would choke on his lunch, pat him on the back, and eventually congratulate him on his terrible taste in men.

They’d discussed the bi thing before. That wasn’t the issue. The issue was _fucking Derek._ The issue was Stiles didn’t actually _like_ Derek. Whatever he was feeling when the alpha was near, it had to be – absolutely, 100%, no doubt about it – magically induced.

Convincing Scott of this, of course, was about as easy as pulling out your own teeth.

“Dude, what?” Scott blinked at him owlishly, his hand halfway to the bowl of Doritos that was sitting between them. They were sprawled on the floor in Stiles’ room on a lazy Sunday afternoon, his dad blissfully out on patrol and hence in no danger of overhearing what could possibly earn first place as _most awkward conversation of his life._

“I think I’ve been cursed. Or something. I’m… _reacting_ … to Derek. Badly. Like, every time he comes close I suddenly catch a bad case of Ebola, badly.” Stiles scowled, aware he was possibly exaggerating a little on the effects the alpha had on him. If he was being honest with himself (and he _definitely_ wasn’t), the feeling wasn’t exactly negative. Just a little debilitating and very much unwelcome, particularly when he struggled to keep a sense of decorum around the alpha on a good day.

“Are you sure you’re not just… sick? Maybe you actually have Ebola.” Stiles sighed, a world weary sigh that was born from years of being friends with the dumbest smart person he knew.

“I can pretty much guarantee that I don’t have actual Ebola Scott. Unless you’ve packed me in a box and shipped me to remote Africa recently against my will.” Stiles reached for a Dorito, nibbling on the end as he continued. “It also doesn’t explain the Derek-ness of it. I don’t know about you, but I haven’t found any diseases that are related to specific people, unless you count Jackson. Even I want to throw up around that guy.”

“What exactly are you feeling anyway?” Scott asked, the exact question Stiles really didn’t want to answer. He decided to go for as clinical as possible, to dispel any _notions_ his friend might leap to.

“Rapid heartbeat. Shallow breathing. Dizziness. Increased temperature.” Stiles recited, eyeing his friend out of the corner of his eye as he went for another Dorito. It was fascinating to watch the cogs slowly turn, as Scott seemed to jump to the very conclusion he was trying to avoid, opened his mouth to say something, then promptly thought better of the idea and closed it again.

It was very much the pink elephant in the room, and Stiles was perfectly happy to continue to ignore it even as it draped itself in Christmas lights and danced the rumba.

“Maybe you should talk to D…”

“No.” Stiles interrupted, thrusting the rest of the mangled crisp into his mouth. “I’m not talking to Derek about this.”

“Actually, I was going to say Deaton?” Scott replied, a sheepish grin on his face. It was impossible to tell if this was true or not, but it didn’t change the fact that it was a good idea.

Seriously. Dumbest smart person he knew.

\--

Against his better judgement, Stiles decided to conduct one more experiment before seeking any more advice. After all, just like his father had taught him – once is chance, twice is coincidence.

Three times though, was a goddamn pattern. Even Stiles couldn’t keep up this level of denial in the face of such overwhelming data.

Fortunately interactions with Derek were limited, so it wasn’t until the next time they visited the loft that Stiles got a chance to enact his plan. The very ill-advised plan that involved putting himself in close proximity to the alpha and seeing if he fell apart. Again.

True to his word, Scott had invited Allison and she had miraculously agreed, so his jeep now had one extra passenger as it wove through the streets of Beacon Hills towards Derek’s apartment. Scott was being unusually quiet, although it wasn’t clear if he was feeding off Stiles’ anxiety about seeing Derek again or if it was Allison related.

“Did you chat to Deaton about… that issue you were having?” Scott asked, diplomatic for the first time in his life. Stiles snuck a glance at Allison in the rear-view mirror, but she seemed to be staring out the window, lost in thought - probably as nervous as he was about facing a pack of werewolves, although for very different reasons.

“Not yet. I’m… collecting more data first.” Stiles replied. He sensed Scott shift awkwardly in his seat, as the werewolf cottoned on to the subtext.

“Oh, okay. Well I guess I’ll keep an eye out tonight then?” Stiles gave his friend a loaded look, trying to quell the familiar anxiety that was curling up his insides. As he glanced in the rear-view again he caught Allison’s eye, and they shared a mutual look of apprehension.

Yeah, there was no way this was going to end badly.

-

It was borderline inspiring how much the evening didn’t descend into a complete and utter train-wreck.

Derek was no help. Despite having agreed to extend the offer to Allison he seemed intent on ignoring her, clearly not having quite forgiven her for the _stuffing-your-pack-full-of-arrows-like-a-pin-cushion_ debacle.

But Boyd had pulled Allison onto the couch almost immediately, and she was quickly absorbed in conversation with him and Erica about what they knew about the alpha pack. Stiles got the feeling this was their way of making up for the fact that they totally would’ve sold her out given half the chance.

Prolonged exposure to the supernatural had clearly made Stiles a tad jaded.

Isaac and Scott had discovered a pack of cards and were playing something that looked and sounded about as stupid as snap, except they kept yelling “bullshit” very loudly and startling everyone in the immediate vicinity.

Of course, all this meant that Stiles and Derek were the only ones at loose ends. Stiles had chimed in to the Erica-Boyd-Allison conversation for as long as possible, but Scott kept shooting him meaningful looks and gesturing towards Derek in ways that were not at all subtle. Eventually Stiles had relented just to avoid the attention Scott was drawing from everyone else.

So it was that, when Derek made his way to the kitchen to hand out drink refills for everyone, Stiles rose from his position on the couch and followed, trying not to feel too much like a dead man walking.

“What do you want Stiles.” Derek didn’t even bother turning around, just grunted out the question like a statement as he reached into the fridge to pull out a bottle of Diet Coke. Stiles most definitely did not stare at the alpha’s perfect arse, tonight hugged by a sinful pair of dark jeans.

“So, while hanging out with werewolves is cool and all and not in any way life-threatening, I was wondering if you had a plan. At all. Even maybe a smidgen of a plan.” Stiles figured he would tackle two birds with one stone, and also question Derek about the alpha pack at the same time as testing his latest _I-am-most-definitely-cursed_ theory.

Nothing made him question his own sanity quite like riling up a werewolf he was simultaneously trying to get physically close to.

“This is the plan.” Derek replied flatly as he turned away from the fridge towards Stiles, gesturing at the group on the couch and Scott and Isaac on the floor not far from them. They were still several feet apart, separated by a kitchen bench, and Stiles made a point of maintaining said distance to ensure he could keep his head during this conversation, both literally and figuratively.

“This… you mean…” Stiles put the pieces together, the odd snippets of information they’d gleaned from Derek about packs. _We’re stronger together. Not just in terms of numbers, but physically._ “This… bonding. You’re trying to get everyone to get along. You’re trying to rebuild your pack.” Stiles narrowed his eyes, hands splayed on the marble bench in front of him. “You’re manipulating them, manipulating Scott.”

“No, I’m not.” Derek replied shortly, eyebrows flattening in clear annoyance. “What I said stands. Scott still has a choice to join or not, but him spending time with the betas strengthens us regardless. Not as strong as if he was officially pack but…” Derek shrugged, filling the glasses laid out on the bench with the bottle of soda he’d opened. “… I’ll take what I can get.”

Stiles was tempted to be pissed off. To grab Scott and – fine yes, Allison – and hightail it out of there and flip Derek the bird on the way out. But right now, as the werewolf concentrated on pouring the remaining drinks, his shoulders tense and eyebrows furrowed, Stiles realised just how vulnerable the alpha was. How vulnerable they all were.

If what Derek said was true, and hitching their metaphorical wagons together in the short term made them stronger – maybe strong enough to face an alpha pack – then he was a fool to ignore it.

It wasn’t like Scott was signing up for life. Just for now.

“So, Jackson?” Stiles asked hesitantly, almost afraid to bring up the King of Douchebags himself but aware that the werewolf was at risk of becoming an omega if he didn’t pull his head out of his own arse soon.

“Yeah, I spoke to Scott about him. He’s going to try to convince him to come along.” Derek replied, and Stiles felt that horrible _possessiveness_ curl around his chest again and he hated himself for it something terrible.

“When did you speak to Scott?” He felt the words hiss out of his mouth before he could stop them, tinged with accusation. Sweet Jesus, he’d actually said that out loud - like that weirdly clingy friend who never learnt to share and kept scrapbooks in his basement of all the creepy photos he took.

Matt. He was Matt.

Derek tilted his head slightly, eyebrows creasing, clearly trying to understand the completely bat-shit-crazy reaction from Stiles.

“Are you and Scott…?” He began quietly, and Stiles choked on his own tongue in his rush to deny the werewolf’s implication.

“No!” He spluttered, waving his arms around wildly for good measure. “No… I just… are you guys friends now?” Seriously Stiles, just shut up. Stop making noises with your mouth if you want to continue to live with all your body parts in the correct locations.

“Stiles.” Derek replied with a weary sigh, the werewolf’s tone far too similar to his own chastising inner voice to be just a passing coincidence. “Just, stop talking.” While Stiles attempted to splutter his way through a response, Derek casually rounded up the glasses on the counter with his dextrous fingers and made his way around the counter. Predictably, because this was his _life_ now, the movement brought him within _incident_ distance of Stiles as he immediately felt that familiar prickling sensation creep across his skin.

It only got worse as the alpha passed him on his way towards the couches, his elbow briefly – _barely_ – skimming past Stiles’ back. If proximity felt like liquid heat in his veins, the touch was nothing short of depraved. Stiles felt himself grow impossibly hard, his skin erupting in goosebumps, as the air around him grew heavy with the scent of arousal and rain and _Derek._

_Fucking Derek._

\--

“Talk me through exactly when these symptoms happen.” Deaton was being as blissfully clinical about this as Stiles had hoped. He had purposefully visited the _crazy-veterinarian-slash-creepy-magic-druid_ without Scott, knowing that the situation had escalated to the point that he was going to have to be brutally truthful about what he was feeling.

Bro-code aside, there was no way he was admitting what happened last Friday to Scott.

His meddling friend already suspected something, after Stiles had admittedly acted like a complete idiot for the rest of the evening. He’d been forced to spend several awkward minutes alone in the kitchen willing his boner to go down, before making a wide circle around Derek and taking a seat on the floor, legs curled up to hide the remnants of _whatever-the-fuck-that-was._

He knew his heart rate had been picked up by the werewolves, because all of them had asked if he was okay at some point during the evening. Except for Derek, thank Christ, who stayed true to character and was a grumpy douchebag the rest of the night. Which suited Stiles _just fine._

Despite escaping Friday with the meagre shreds of his dignity intact, it had become painfully obvious that the _Incidents_ could no longer be ignored. Hence, Deaton, the first chance he got – which happened to be Monday after school, when he knew Scott had lacrosse practice.

Technically Stiles had lacrosse practice too, but seriously. Who gave a fuck about high school sport when his entire world was imploding.

“They happen whenever Derek is within about… a foot? Maybe a little more? I haven’t exactly gotten a tape measure out, because that would be weird. And I’ve been flirting with weird way too much lately. It’s also worse the closer he gets. Touch… touch does bad things.” Stiles shuddered, reluctantly yielding to Deaton’s ministrations as the vet performed a serious of seemingly routine checks on him.

Stiles hadn’t even realised he’d closed his eyes until the snap of latex brought him back to reality. With a shock he opened them to see Deaton standing in front of him, having divested himself of his gloves and eyeing Stiles with an odd expression on his face.

“I have some theories. One, actually.” Deaton began, the seriousness in his voice somehow at odds with the twinkle in his eye. Stiles felt marginally reassured – nothing that life-threatening would be in the slightest bit amusing to the normally reserved veterinarian.

“Okay, spill doc. Or is it vet? In any case, what’s the prognosis? Sprinkle of mistletoe and I’m cured? A sniff of mountain ash? I’m warning you, I don’t do drugs, so anything needle based you’ll need to…”

“There is no cure.” Deaton interrupted. “Because there’s nothing technically wrong with you. What you’re going through is very unusual, but not unheard of. I’ve seen it happen with wolves, but for a human to exhibit this behaviour…  well I suppose it’s certainly possible…”

“You’re keeping me in suspense here doc.” It was Stiles’ turned to interrupt. “What is happening to me? Please tell me I’m not stuck having raging Derek-boners for the rest of my existence?”

Deaton’s face seemed to adopt several warring expressions at once, ranging from grossed out, amused, sombre and something that could only be disapproval. “Technically, it’s what’s happening to Derek that’s of most interest here. As an alpha, the drive to build a pack is almost a compulsion. There is only one other drive that can so consume an alpha – the urge to find a mate.”

Stiles felt his stomach sink somewhere close to his testicles as his brain began leaping to conclusions in spectacular fashion.

“Mate?” Stiles echoed weakly. “Like, sexy times, life-long soul mate type thing?”

“It’s not quite as black and white as that. Mate is just the wolf term for life partner. Wolves – in particular alphas – are capable of forming mate-bonds with any number of people, although the pull is usually stronger with those in their pack, particularly those in their pack not already in a relationship for obvious reasons. When an alpha is seeking a mate, they will exude power in a way that will attract the right sort of partner.”

Stiles really didn’t like the sound of this, at all. He felt something familiar in his chest tighten, that sensation that always proceeded a panic attack, and already hated himself a little bit more for it.

 “Hold up doc.” He began, taking several deep breaths that seemed to loosen the vice only marginally. “Are you saying that Derek is…   _exuding_ relationship vibes? And somehow I’m… what? Alpha bait? And why is it just me getting raging Derek-feels and not the other way around? Shouldn’t he be all…” Stiles gestured helplessly at himself, unwilling or unable to articulate exactly what he meant but hoping Deaton got the gist of it.

“I believe in the animal kingdom you would call it pheromones, although in the werewolf context it is a bit more complex than that.” Deaton replied evenly, no hint of emotion in his voice. Despite the tightness in his chest, Stiles couldn’t help but reflect on how grateful he was for the clinical approach Deaton was taking to what would otherwise be an instant-panic-inducing conversation. “Derek’s wolf appears to be seeking a mate, but it’s possible that he’s not even aware he’s putting out this call. It can be prompted by any number of things, but in this case I would suggest the loss of Erica and Boyd triggered something in Derek. A profound loneliness that sought a deeper connection with someone, someone to call his own - dare I say, someone who would not leave him the way they did.”

This was pretty much the worst conclusion Stiles’ mind had already jumped to. Stiles was lonely as fuck, so was Derek too as it turned out, and their treacherous bodies were attempting to create a mate bond of epic proportions.

The worst bit of all, Derek didn’t have a clue.

“Doc…” Stiles began, his voice weaker and more unsteady than he’d anticipated. “I don’t understand. What am I supposed to do?” Deaton’s multi-layered expression was back, the one that was sort of amused but also serious at the same time – clearly his life wasn’t in immediate danger, but if the veterinarian had any sense he’d realise that anything that involved Derek was a direct threat to his continued existence.

“I’m afraid there is little you can do - this is basic instinct at work.” Stiles resisted the urge to make a movie reference, a feat which he felt deserved more praise than he got. “The alpha’s desire to form a bond will only subside if that connection is satisfied. It’s possible reforming the pack – as I understand he is trying to do – will be enough. But finding a mate will end it once and for all.”

The reality of the situation, which had been fighting to make its presence known since Deaton had started his explanation, finally broke free and stood before Stiles’ in all its terrible, brutal glory. He was only vaguely aware of the silence in the clinic, and the rapid thumping of his heart, as his mind began to turn over all the ways in which this situation well and truly sucked balls.

Huge, hairy, in-your-face balls.

It was tempting to sink into the panic that was lurking at the edges of his mind. It would be easier than facing this, whatever _this_ was. Stiles _deserved_ to panic about this.

But somehow he managed to pull through, to keep his head above water, to steady his breathing.

“So, if Derek shacks up with someone…” He began, carefully. “I’m… cured?” Cured like this was a disease, an ailment he’d acquired on the long and weary road to fighting the supernatural.

“This is not a physical force Stiles.” Deaton’s patience was truly unyielding. “What Derek seeks is an emotional connection, and only a true mate will satisfy the alpha’s call.”

_Fuck._ Stiles’ thought, unhelpfully.

“Well fuck.” Stiles said out loud, because really, there was no reason to hold back when your life was being so spectacularly screwed.

\--


End file.
